Whatever were Deborah’s qualifications beauty and attractiveness were not among the foremost. From the age of fifteen to twenty she was tormented unceasingly with sties upon her eyes. Now, you will probably be so disgusted when you read this that you will close the book. But there is a little originality somewhere about it, if you care to think, because the heroines of books are not often afflicted that way. These sties, moreover, were by no means of the insignificant kind. They were like big gatherings that disfigured and discoloured whichever side of her face they arose upon. No sooner was one gone than another came, and frequently two would appear together—on the top and bottom lid—closing her eye completely. Once or twice indeed she would have two on the one eye and another on the other, which was the height of discomfort. For besides being very unsightly they were exceedingly painful, and would sometimes throb till she was nearly beside herself. Sometimes, when they hurt more than usual, she would cry from sheer low spirits; but that only aggravated them the more, and made her look so ugly that everybody laughed and then pitied her. “I don’t see why I should be afflicted like this,” she used to say, looking in the glass. “They come week after week and I’m never rid of them. Besides, I hate teaching with my eyes in this state. I hate to be seen with these red, ugly, swollen lids.” “It is to teach you patience and sympathy,” said a voice. “Fiddlesticks!” said Deborah. “How is it I need so much more teaching than anybody else round about? And I’m sure the other week, when I had three sties on my eyes and a gathering on my finger, and a headache which lasted four successive days without a break, I hadn’t spirit enough left to be anything but patient; so where is the virtue in it?” Naturally there was no reply to this. One day someone observed, “What a pity your eyes have been so spoilt. You used to have such nice lashes and now they’ve nearly all come off.” But there was absolutely no comfort in that, so she might just as well have left it unsaid. Now the time was drawing on for Deborah to go to college to be trained as a teacher; in another four months or so the old life in the old school would be over. “How desperately dull life is,” thought she. “Why doesn’t something happen?” And something did happen—she fell in love. It happened like this. There came as an assistant master to the school a young man who was very nice. Deborah was, as a rule, rather hard to please, but saw took a distinct fancy to him the first time she saw him. He was tall and he was well-built, with a refined and pleasant face. “I wonder who he is?” she said. “Oh! don’t you know? It’s the new assistant in the boys’ school,” replied a girl who was with her. “Oh! how lovely!” And a new interest had come into her life. And Deborah, weakly, sickly, diminutive and full of infirmities, drew near to this unknown light.